by W. W. Jacobs
II.
Gazing through the cab window, pressed into her corner, the girl feltherself friendless, outcast, alone. Again she told herself that she didnot want Mrs. Chater's sympathy; yet it was the studied withholding ofit--studied or callous because so natural, the merest conventionalism,to have asked, "Were you hurt?"--that made her acutely feel herposition.
A paradox, she thought, not to want a thing and yet to be woundedbecause it was not hers. A ridiculous paradox--and brightly she tried tosmile at the silliness of it; blinking the tears that were swelling now,her face turned against the window towards the pavement.
A tall, slim girl was passing, holding the arm of a nice-looking littleold man with a grey moustache and military air. The tall, slim girlwas laughing down at him, and he looked to be chuckling merrily, justas--Her mind swung off, and the tears must be blinked again.
They reminded her, those two, of herself and her father. Such familiarfriends as they looked so she had been with Dad who idolised herand whom she had idolised. Just like that--arm in arm, joking,"ragging"--she used to walk with him round about the home inIreland--the world to one another and none else in the world, except themother who was so intimately and inseparably of them that years past herdeath they still spoke of her as if she were alive.
Thus, long after her death, it would be: "Dad, we can't go home by thehill; mother never lets Grizzle do that climb after a long day." And:"Mary, your mother won't like you being so late; we must turn back."And: "Mary, there's the pig by mother's almond tree; run and shoo him."
Partly this refusal to recognise that, though dead, Mother was actuallygone from them, no longer was sharing their little jokes and duties, wasbecause death came with such steady, appreciable, unfrightening steps.First the riding stopped, and then the walks made shorter and shorter;then the strolls in the garden stopped, and then carrying the couch outunder the trees--and none of them very fearful, because prepared: it wasto be--almost the very day could have been named. Thus, when it came,though the blow swooped heavy, terrific, she never seemed actually tohave left them.
"Well, now, dear dears," she had said with a little smile and a littlesigh, "we have been happy ... only a little way away...."
But with Dad it was different. Somehow, looking back on it, one hadsupposed that nothing would ever touch the cheery little man; thatshe and he would go on and on and on--well, till they grew very oldtogether.
Nothing could ever touch him....
"What a wicked beauty, eh, Mary?" he had said when the man brought roundthe half-broken filly that its owner "funked."
And she had laughed and said: "Yes, an angel in a temper--what a run youwill have, Dad!" and had waved from the gate as the angel in a tempercurveted away around the corner.
Nothing could ever touch him....
And then the man on a bicycle--with a dent in his hat, she noticed.
"If you can come quickly, missy. Top of the Three Finger field he lays."
Bare-backed she had galloped Grizzle there, and as she sped could notfor the life of her think of aught else than the dent in the man's hat;rode up Three Finger Lane wondering how it came there; approached thelittle group wondering why he did not push it out.
Just as she galloped up they took off their hats. Someone who had beenon his knees stood upright--she saw the stain of wet earth where he hadbeen kneeling; forgot the dented hat; wondered if he knew of the MarvelCleaning Pad that had done so wonderfully with Dad's breeches when hetook a toss last Friday.
Dad...! Of course...! It was to see Dad that she was here.
Somebody tried to dissuade her ... better wait till they brought himhome ... could do no good--now.
"Why? Why not see him? Let me pass, Mr. Saunders."
Well, the filly lay across him ... he had begged them not to move herbecause of the pain.... Better come away.
She pushed through them.... Yes, better perhaps not to have seen ... allcrumpled up....
Recollecting, she could feel distinctly in her knees the creepy damp asthe moisture of the marshy ground penetrated her skirts, bending overthe twisted face.
III.
Thereafter a blank of days in which events must have occurred butto which memory brought no lamp until the faint crunch as the coffintouched the earth seven feet down....
Multitudinous papers after that. Wearying, sickening masses ofdocuments; interminable writing of signature; interminable making oflists. And then the word LOT. "Lot I," "Lot 2," "Lot 50," "Lot 200"--ahammerlike word to thump the brain at night, frightening sleep,producing grotesque nightmares, as "Lot 12, a polished oak coffin,finished plain, brass Handles."
No! No! That was not to be sold!--leaden hands holding her down;stifling hands at her mouth to stay her shouting "Stop!"
Then sudden consciousness--only a dream! Bolt upright in bed staringinto the darkness. A dream? How much of it a dream? Was it all a dream?The fevered brain would fetch her from her bed, groping to Dad'sroom, striking a match--no familiar form upon the bed; a big whiteticket--"Lot 56."
Back to the hot, crumpled couch, there, tossing, to lie attempting agrasp, a realisation of what it all meant....
IV.
A dark little office in Dublin.... So much the "Lots" had fetched, somuch the balance at the bank; no investments, it was to be feared; noinsurance, my dear Miss Humfray; so much the bills and other claims onthe estate.... "Don't wish to be bothered with figures? Of course not,my dear.... And then we come to the balance--I'm afraid a few pounds,practically nothing...."
V.
On the steamer bound for Holyhead.... During the crossing the stiflingweight that had benumbed her intellect ever since the man with the dentin his hat came riding up the drive seemed suddenly to lift. Whippedaway perhaps by the edged wind that rushed past her from England toIreland sinking in the sea--a wind to cut you to the bone; discoveringsensation in every marrow; stinging her to clear thought.... Thatidyllic life with Mother and Dad--the world to one another and none elsein the world beside--had been rather the creation of circumstance thanof design. Dad's people were furious when he married Mother; in defianceof hers, Mother married Dad. Relations on either side had shrieked theirdisapproval of the match, then left the couple to their own adventures.A thing to laugh at in those days, but bringing now to the child thatwas left the realisation of not a support in the world.
Her mother's sisters had written after the funeral inviting her to cometo them in England "while she looked about her." She could recall everysentence of that letter. It had burned. Each word, each comma was freshbefore her eyes as the cab jolted on to Palace Gardens.
"It would have been our pleasure constantly to have entertained youduring your mother's life-time," they had written, "but she wilfullyflouted our desires at her marriage and thereafter utterly ignored us.The fault for the rift between us was of her making, not ours; we senther an Easter card one year, and had no reply; though we have nodoubt that your father, not that we would say a word against him now,influenced her against her better judgment. However...."
She had written back a hysterical letter.
"Your letter came just after I had returned from burying my dear, dearfather, who worshipped my darling mother. If I were begging in thestreet, starving, dying, I would not touch a crumb or a penny ofyours. You are wicked--yes, you are wicked to write to me as you havewritten...."
VI.
She could not stay in Ireland. Her only friends there lived about thedear home that was now no longer a home but a "desirable residence withsome acres of garden and paddock." Her only friends there were friendswho had been shared with Mother and Dad--whose presence now would beconstant reminder of that happy participation now lost. One and alloffered her hospitality, but she must refuse. "No, no silly idea ofbeing a burden to you, dear, dear Mrs. Sullivan--only I can't, can'tlive anywhere near where we used to live."
Years before a great friend of hers had married an English clergyman;had written often to her from London of the numerous activities in whichshe was e
ngaged--principal among them a kind of agency and home forgentlewomen. "Governesses, dear, and all that kind of thing ... poorgirls, many of them, who have suddenly had to earn a living."
The correspondence had died, as do so many, from the effects of undueurgency at the outset; but she had the address, and was certain there ofwelcome and of aid. "Poor girls who have suddenly had to earn a living."The words took on a new meaning: she was of these.
From Euston she drove to the address. Her friend had gone. Yes, thepresent occupant remembered the name. The present occupant had beenthere two years; had taken over the lease from the former tenant becausethe lady was ill and had been ordered abroad. That was all the presentoccupant knew; saw her to the door; closed it behind her.
Alone in London. "Alone in London"--it had been one of Dad's jokes; hehad written a burlesque on it, and they had played it one Christmasto roars of fun. O God! what a thing at which to laugh now that therealisation struck and one stood on the pavement in the dark with thisgreat city roaring at one!
Cabmen, she had heard, were brutes; but the man who had brought herto the house must be appealed to.... Where could she get the cheapestlodging of some kind?
How did he know? What was she wanting to pay? ...
The great city roared at her. Her head swum a little. An idler or twotook up a grinning stand: the thing looked like a cab-fare dispute....What was she wanting to pay? ... Well, as little as possible. "I havenever been in London before, and I don't know anybody. My friend herehas gone. I have just arrived from Ireland." She began to cry.
He from his box in a moment. "From Ireland!"
Why, he was from Ireland! ... Not likely she was from Connemara? ... Shewas? ... From Kinsloe? ... Why, he knew it well; he was from Ballydag!
He rolled his tongue around other names of the district; she knew themall; could almost have laughed at the silly fellow's delight.
Why, the honour it would be if she would come and let his missus makeher up a bed! "Don't ye cry, missie. Don't ye take on like that. It'sall right ye are now." He put a huge, roughly great-coated arm abouther--squeezed her, she believed; helped her into the cab.
VII.
Missus in the clean little rooms over the rattling mews was no lessdelighted. From Kinsloe? Why, missie saw that canary?--that was apresent from Betty Murphy in Kinsloe, not three months before!
The canary, aroused by the attention paid it, trilled upward in amounting ecstasy of shrillness that went up and up and up through herhead ... louder and louder ... shriller and yet more shrill ... bird andcage became misty, swum around her.... Missus and Tim must have carriedher to the bed in which she awoke.
VIII.
Friends in Ireland had given her the addresses of friends in Londonon whom she must call. She visited some houses; then in a sudden wilddespair tore the list. Either these people were dense of comprehensionor she clumsy of explanation. To make them realise her position shefound impossible. They were warmly kind, sympathetic--cheery in thatlugubrious fashion in which we are taught to be "bright" with theafflicted. But when she spoke of the necessity to find employment theywould warmly cry, "Oh, but you must not think of that yet, Miss Humfray... after all you have been through.... You must keep quiet for alittle."
One and all gave her the same words. An impulse took her to kick overthe tea-table--anything to arouse these people from their stereotypedmood of sympathy with a girl suddenly bereaved,--and to cry, "But don'tyou _understand_? I am living over a mews--over a _mews_ with twelvepounds and a few shillings, and then _nothing_--nothing at all."
Wise, perhaps, had she indulged the outburst without the action; wiserhad she written to some of the friends in Ireland, asked to go back toone of them for a while. But the dull grief beneath which she still laybenumbed prevented her from other course than tonelessly acceptingthe proffered sympathy; and the thought of returning to Ireland wasimpossible. She tore the list of London friends; appealed to Tim andMissus.
Tim was helpful. He had taken fares to an Agency in Norfolk Street--anAgency for "Disturbed Gentlewomen," he called it; there took her onemorning.
"Distressed Gentlewomen," she found the brass plate to read--"TheNorfolk Street Agency for Distressed Gentlewomen."
A lymphatic-looking young woman, assisting the growth of a singularlystout face by sucking a sweet, and wearing brown holland sleeveprotectors hooked up with enormous safety-pins, received her in the roommarked "Enquiries"; put her into that labelled "Waiting." Here were twocopies of the _Christian Herald_, some emigration pamphlets, a carafeof water covered by an inverted tumbler dusty with disuse, and threeelderly females--presumably gentlewomen, possibly distressed, but notadvertising either condition.
In due time her turn for the room marked "Private"; interrogation byMiss Ram, a short, thin lady in black, who bowed more frequently thanshe spoke, possessing a range of inclinations of the head each of whichhad unmistakable meaning.
Position sought?--Oh, anything; governess, companion. Lastsituation?--None; she was inexperienced. Capabilities?--Equally lacking,as discovered by a probing cross-examination. Salary required?--Oh,anything; whatever was usual; a _home_--that was the chief object inview.
Miss Ram entered the details in a severe-looking book with a longthin pen--could hold out but faint hopes. The applicants whom she wasaccustomed to suit were "in nine and ninety cases out of one hundredcases" accomplished in the domestic or scholastic arts. However. Yes,Miss Humfray should call every morning. Better still, stay in thewaiting-room. Be On the Spot--that was the first requisite for success,as Miss Humfray would find whether in a situation or awaiting asituation; be On the Spot.
IX.
On the Spot. A nightmare week in the dingy waiting-room ... thoughtsprobing the mind, stabbing the heart.... Nine till one, a cup of teaand a roll at an A.B.C. shop, an aimless walk in the park; two till six,good-night to the stout young woman named Miss Porter in "Enquiries,"home to the rattling mews and to Missus.
On the Spot. Occasional interviews. "Miss Humfray, a lady will see you."... "Oh, too young--far too young." ... "Thank you, that will do, MissHumfray." ... "Oh, not my style at all." ... "Thank you, that will do,Miss Humfray."
On the Spot. Fortunately On the Spot one day--a Mrs. Eyton-Eyton, asnursery governess, Streatham.
For a week very much On the Spot with Mrs. Eyton-Eyton. Nurserygoverness was a comprehensive word in the Eyton-Eyton vocabulary;covered every duty that in a nursery must be performed. One must dothe nursery fire, sweep the nursery floor, bring up and carry down thenursery meals--servants, you see, object to waiting upon one whom, asMrs. Eyton-Eyton with a careless laugh pointed out, they regard as oneof themselves. Quickly the lesson was appreciated that while a servantmust never be "put upon," the same consideration need not be extended toa lady. Servants are rare in the market, young ladies cheap.
X.
The lesson of dependence, subserviency, Mary found harder in thelearning; did not study it; therein reaped disaster.
She arrived on a Tuesday. Upon that day of the following week Mrs.Eyton-Eyton paid to the nursery one of her rare visits, beautifullygowned, the hired victoria waiting to take her a round of calls.
Lunch, delayed not to disturb the midday sleep of Masters Thomas andRichard Eyton-Eyton, was not cleared--Master Thomas still strugglingwith a plate of sago pudding.
Betwixt her children Mrs. Eyton-Eyton--beautifully gowned, hiredvictoria in waiting--took her seat; Mary hovered behind--and catastropheswooped. Master Thomas grabbed for a glass of milk; Mary strove torestrain him. There was an awkward struggle, her elbow--or his--caughtthe plate of pudding, tipped the sticky mass into the silken lap of Mrs.Eyton-Eyton, beautifully gowned, hired victoria in waiting.
Infuriated, Mrs. Eyton-Eyton turned upon Mary. "Oh, you little fool!"
The rebuke that should have been taken with downcast eyes, murmuredapologies, was otherwise received.
"Mrs. Eyton! How dare you call me a fool!"
Pause of blank amazement; sago-messed table-
napkin in the scented hand;sago creeping down the silken skirt. That a nursery governess--not evena servant--should so presume!
"Miss Humfray! You forget yourself!"
"No!-No! It is you who forget yourself. How dare you speak to me likethat!"
Another moment of utter bewilderment; small Eyton-Eytons gazinground-eyed; the girl white, heaving; the woman dully red. Then "Packyour boxes, Miss!"
XI.
She was upon the platform at Victoria Station, a porter asking commandsfor her box, before she realised what she had done. A few pounds in herpurse, and infinitely worse off now than a week before. Then she had no"character"; now employment was to be sought with Mrs. Eyton-Eyton asher "last place." She would not go back to Missus and Tim. Though theyhad tried to conceal it, secretly, she had seen, they were relievedwhen she left. They had not accommodation for her; latterly she haddispossessed of his bed a sailor son on leave from his ship.
She left her box in the cloak-room; turned down Wilton Road from thestation; penetrated the narrow thoroughfares between Lupus Street andthe river; secured a bedroom with Mrs. Japes at six shillings a week.
